She nodded wordlessly, eyes scanning the tangle of tree trunks and limbs immediately below, searching for movement in the lengthening shadows. The feeders, if they were out yet, would be there, watching.
“Some sylvans go through their entire lives and never encounter a demon.” Pick’s voice was soft and contemplative. “Hundreds of years, and not a one.”
“It’s my fault,” she said.
“Not hardly!”
“It is,” she insisted. “It began with my father.”
“Which was your grandmother’s mistake!” he snapped.
She glanced down at him, all fiery-eyed and defensive of her, and she gave him a smile. “Where would I be without you, Pick?”
“Somewhere else, I expect.”
She sighed. Over the past fifteen years she had attempted to move away from the park. To leave the park was unthinkable for Pick; the park was his home and his charge. For the sylvan, nothing else existed. It was different for her, of course, but Pick didn’t see it that way. Pick saw things in black-and-white terms. Even an inherited obligation—in this case, an obligation passed down through six generations of Freemark women to help care for the park—wasn’t to be ignored, no matter what. She belonged here, working with him, keeping the magic in balance and looking after the park. But this was all Pick knew. It was all he had done for more than one hundred fifty years. Nest didn’t have one hundred fifty years, and she wasn’t so sure that tending the magic and looking after the park was what she wanted to spend the rest of her life doing.
She looked off across the Rock River, at the hazy midafternoon twilight beginning to steal out of the east as the shortened winter day slipped westward. “What do you want to do today, Pick?” she asked quietly.
He shrugged. “Too late to do much, I expect.” He did not say it in a gruff way; he simply sounded resigned. “Let’s just have a look around, see if anything needs doing, and we can see to it tomorrow.” He sniffed and straightened. “If you think you can spare the time, of course.”
“Of course,” she echoed.
They left the bluffs and walked down the road from the turnaround to where it split, one branch doubling back under a bridge to descend to the base of the bluffs and what she thought of as the feeder caves, the other continuing on along the high ground to the east end of the park, where the bulk of the woods and picnic areas were located. They followed the latter route, working their way along the fringes of the trees, taking note of how everything was doing, not finding much that didn’t appear as it should. The park was in good shape, even if Pick wasn’t willing to acknowledge as much. Winter had put her to sleep in good order, and the magic, dormant and restful in the long, slow passing of the season, was in perfect balance.
The world of Sinnissippi Park is at peace, Nest thought to herself, glancing off across the open flats of the ball diamonds and playgrounds and through the skeletal trees and rolling stretches of woodland. Why couldn’t her world be the same?
But she knew the answer to that question. She had known it for a long time. The answer was Wraith.
Three years earlier, she had been acclaimed as the greatest American long-distance runner of all time. She had already competed in one Olympics and had won a pair of gold medals and set two world records. She had won thirty-two consecutive races since. She owned a combined eight world titles in the three and five thousand. She was competing in her second Olympics, and she had won the three by such a wide margin that a double in the five seemed almost a given.
She remembered that last race vividly. She had watched the video a thousand times. She could replay it hi her own mind from memory, every moment, frame by frame.
Looking off into the trees, she did so now.
-=O=-***-=O=-
She breaks smoothly from the start line, content to stay with the pack for several laps, for this longer distance places a higher premium on patience and endurance than on speed. There are eight lead changes in the first two thousand meters, and then her competitors begin boxing her in. Working in shifts, the Ukrainians, the Ethiopians, a Moroccan, and a Spaniard pin her against the inside of the track. She has gone undefeated in the three- and five-thousand-meter events for four years. You don’t do that, no matter how well liked or respected you are, and not make enemies. In any case, she has never been all that close to the other athletes. She trains with her college coach or alone. She stays by herself when she travels to events. She keeps apart because of the nature of her life. She is careful not to get too close to anyone. Her legacy of magic has made her wary.